


Routines

by Luce_cm



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff, a lil bit of angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-09-01
Packaged: 2019-07-05 06:18:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15857934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luce_cm/pseuds/Luce_cm
Summary: Bucky is a man of routines, established events he will follow dutifully, and you will always do your best to accompany him through them. Maybe even try to get him accustomed to some new, happier ones.





	Routines

**Author's Note:**

> A little analysis of what I think would be one of Bucky’s quirks, and wishful thinking.

Bucky is a man of routines. You do not know if it comes from his sergeant days, or worse, from his time in Hydra; but he has established a set of tasks that he will follow every day, and he clings to those certain events, to that unmovable schedule, like he does to few things in his life.

He has assured you, and more importantly shown you, that this is not a regression to his Winter Soldier mode, decades of forced compliance and efficiency establishing an unbreakable routine on the Soldat. Bucky has shown you it is not the case, for what once were hurtful hands dragging him in his semi-conscious state out of a chamber filled with burning cold, now are you gentle fingers running up and down his back, tracing over lax muscles, or your even breaths on his skin, reminding him of nothing but warmth; what once were harsh training sessions to keep his body at its peak, brutal beatings in case of perceived failure, are now light mornings with the man he is learning to call his best friend again, running quick laps and playful banter.

What once was a machine, a body torturously out of his control, is now a life of his own. A life built on ragged edges and missing pieces, but his own nonetheless.

You both live in what is probably the most secure building in the world, surrounded by people that know how to kill without the victim even realizing it; and yet every night, Bucky will check every lock in your floor, check the rounds on the pistol you keep in your nightstand and hide the various notebooks he keeps notes on his memories on all over the room, in different places each night. Daily, he changes something about this little nightly routine, sometimes he changes your handgun for one of his own, checking twice to see of you are comfortable with the weight before leaving it on your nightstand, sometimes he leaves one of the notebooks out in the open, a little test to himself, a proof that not everything is going to disappear come morning.

Because that is what this routine is about, you have noticed. You know there’s a part of him that clings so tightly to these assured events because there will always be this voice in the back of his mind, talking in the cadence of all those monsters that treated him like an animal, that tells him Hydra will come collect its due, that he will lose everything he loves.

You put down your Stark patented reading pad as Bucky approaches the bed, leaving a kiss on your shoulder and molding his body to yours.

You are not ashamed to admit you have a routine of your own, as you let your fingers run through his soft brown tresses you close your eyes and bask in the feeling of his body next to your own, the warmth of his skin permeating to you, his even breaths caressing your naked shoulder and neck, leaving goosebumps chasing after the touch.

But Bucky tenses after a few minutes of comfortable silence, and sits up in bed again.

“Did I check the locks?” He mumbles, but is already standing up and walking to the door before you can assure him that he indeed check them all. You watch patiently as he walks out of the room, checking the windows, the main door, and going as far as stepping into the bathroom and checking the window there too.

The soldier walks back into bed, sitting down with his back to you as he takes a deep breath. You watch his shoulders expand with the movement, flesh and metal rising and falling alike to the cadence of his breathing.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, a hand running sheepishly through long locks as a tired face turns to face yours, tight-lipped smile on his lips.

“I get it, love. It’s okay.” You soothe, reaching over and breathing a kiss on the nape of his neck, delighted in the shiver that runs down his spine at the tender touch.

“I…I just want to make sure, just in- just in case.” He mumbles, fingers intertwining with your own where they rest over his heart.

“I know. And I will work with you for the day you don’t have to,” You whisper back, chin resting on his shoulder before you press a soft kiss behind his ear and add, “Come to bed now?”

He does, and even hours after his breaths have evened out, your mind refuses to settle. Bucky had been getting better, slowly but surely, it had been months since the last time he had to check twice the locks and the security system. You know there are bound to be setbacks, but you also know you are supposed to help him work through them.

So, as night turns to early morning, you set on a plan and slowly slide away from his vine-like embrace. When Bucky makes a soft sound, hand reaching out for you in his sleep, you whisper a kiss on his lips and smile in the darkness of the room, but you still get up.

You know there is more to his routine, a more instinctual part of him that clings to the events because when those voices in the back of his mind get louder, when he starts _believing_ them, things stop seeming real.

Steve’s affection and compassion are nothing more than a trick, a test to check his loyalty to Hydra. People’s nods and acknowledgments of thanks as they pass him and his best friend on the streets are signals, codes that he must go back, report the mission, because a punishment is at stake, because the cold is waiting to embrace him again.

You, your presence in his home, your gentle touch and golden heart are, on those bad days when the past wins, nothing more than a mirage, a hallucination of undeserved kindness and softness, a product of the imagination of a broken man’s jagged edges, destroying touch.

So you spend the night making the right calls, visiting the right spots. A few favors called to friends from the Smithsonian, a very strange talk with Tony in the middle of the night; but you finally get what you wanted.

The box filled with already developed pictures, and even some new ones that you decided to print out and frame either way is in your arms, and stacked over it a smaller box, wrapped in simple brown paper and a bow you tried your best at making.

As you walk back to the compound your phone starts vibrating in your pocket, but you ignore it for the time being, juggling the boxes until you get to the apartment.

The elevator takes you silently to the floor you share with Bucky, and you bit back a scream when the doors open to reveal Bucky aiming a gun at your head.

“Wh-…oh,” He blinks a couple of times, as if taking you in for the first time, and drops the handgun to the floor with no finesse. After a second, he breathes your name and in the same beat he asks, “Are you hurt? Are you alright?”

You keep your eyes on his, and put a small smile on our face as you explain,

“Yes, I’m perfectly fine. Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you, I was thinking about…” Your words die down as strong arms are wrapped around you, the box quickly falling to the floor and your body being lifted in the air so Bucky’s face can easily access your neck, where he hides it. You breathe out a shocked laugh, but either way let your arms rest around his broad frame, “Okay, we’re hugging now.”

But your soldier doesn’t answer, doesn’t even put a smile for your sake at your attempt at a lighthearted comment. You are pretty sure he isn’t even breathing. Your heartratespikes, and you run your fingers through his hair, as the other hand splays over his back.

You find his shirt is soaked in sweat and you frown as he holds you even tighter.

“Honey, are you okay? Was it a nightmare?” The words are sadly another routine you have gotten used to since you started spending the night at his place, a chain of questions and reassurances to follow after his demons come after him in his most vulnerable state.

“No, no. You’re here, I…I’m okay,” He mumbles, shaking his head minutely against your skin. He sets you back on your feet, but you keep your arms stretched over so you can keep contact with him. Apparently that was his idea too, because Bucky lowers his forehead to yours and breaths in deeply, eyes closed.

You are not convinced y his words, however, but you don’t say anything, and after a few beats he adds quietly, “It’s alright, doll, don’t worry about it.”

Letting gentle fingers trace over his cheek and the stubble you have come to associate with the soldier in front of you, you whisper, “Bucky…you know I am here to stay, don’t you?”

He nods, eyes still closed and both hands running down your sides,

“Yes, I do. You promised, and I trust you,” He nods once again for good measure, and almost to himself, almost like another routine to keep, another memory to hold on to with all his might, he adds, “You promised.”

“I did, soldier.” You smile up at him, breaking the soft touch of your foreheads together and waiting for him to open his eyes. When his grey-blue eyes open again to meet yours, you lean up and press a kiss against his lips.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers against your lips as you part, “I…I know I shouldn’t worry.”

“It’s okay. I actually have an idea, to…help with…something.” Your confidence in the gift dies down as you try explaining it out loud, but your boyfriend’s smile, and the way his face lights up like a child’s when he sees the small wrapped up box as you picked them up reassures you this isn’t as stupid as it may seem.

Bucky takes the big box from you and follows you to the living room where he leaves it, still closed on top of the coffee table.

“What’s all this, doll?”

You take a seat on the couch, and motion to the big box with your chin,

“Open it.”

“But I saw a present.” He insists, adorable pout on his lips that never fails to prompt a small laugh out of you.

“That one is a present too.” You assure, rolling your eyes. He is quick to retort, though, bratty comeback at the tip of his tongue at all times.

“It isn’t wrapped.”

“Bucky!” You whine, although you are smiling widely. He pretends to glower as he opens the first box, and when he sees what’s inside, he swiftly drops the act.

Reaching inside while casting a quick glance your way, Bucky takes out a handful of pictures, some of lower quality, others as good as they come; some coming from newspaper’s articles, others from your own phone or Steve’s.

There’s a big stash of frames at the bottom of the pile, in all shapes and sizes. Some pictures are already framed, but most of them are for him to decide whether or not they are to be put as physical proof or not.

You shrug and rest your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, his eyes glued to the pictures as he looks them over, handling them with the utmost care.

“I know the man in some of those pictures isn’t…all you are today, but he is still a part, isn’t he? And…I guess I thought maybe it could let you remember where you come from? How far you’ve come? Because, baby, you have no idea how proud I am of you, you are doing so well and I just…I don’t know. Just…say something?”

He stops your anxious ramble by turning your way and pressing his lips against yours. It’s the sort of kiss that takes your breath away, electricity running down your body as his tongue seeks entrance into your mouth, flesh hand holding onto your hair gently, guiding your mouth against his.

You cannot contain the small sound of pleasure that leaves you as you press back against his lips, your heart drumming in your ears and your mind clouded with nothing but _him._

When you break apart, he seals words against your lips that you cannot, for the life of you, process. You blink drowsily a couple of times, and finally focus on his radiant face.

“What?”

“I said thank you, doll Thank you so much for this.” He smiles lovingly at you, and as he leans again to kiss you again, you lift your hand and press it to his mouth.

You watch his brow furrow adorably and cannot contain the light laugh that escapes your lips.

Lifting the box still in your free hand, you whisper,

“There’s still another present, remember?”

You hand him the box, pretending not to notice the bashful way in which he accepts the gift, and when he takes out the simple and yet trusty camera out of the box, you smile his way and shrug lightly again.

“To capture new memories, maybe? The new life? I know we take pictures with my phone, and even Steve’s and Friday probably has thousands of files on what we do in the compound, but…I wanted it to be yours, you know?”

He doesn’t talk, doesn’t answer. Bucky keeps his eyes on the camera, metal fingers tracing over the words you had engraved on the inside carefully, and a tremulous smile on his lips.

When he turns to you, and the grateful words hang at the tip of his tongue, this time it is you the one that dives in, taking his breath away and leaving the pictures forgotten for the rest of the night.

He takes up on photography quite easily. Of course, his technique is not that of a professional, but to you it does not matter, as long as it helps him cement these moments in reality, as long as it lets him know this life is here to stay, is his to keep.

The soft click of the camera trigger going off becomes a part of your daily life as easily as Bucky’s nightly routine, or his habit of always using the same mug in the mornings. It comes a point where you cannot remember a time before the silent presence of hundreds of pictures scattered through your home.

At the beginning, most pictures are of you, your back turned to Bucky as you walk through your home, your relaxed expression as you sleep, your brilliant smile as you turn back to look at him; and when you find out the memory is almost full of snuck pictures of you your heart both skips a beat and breaks for him. You gave him the gift to help him ground events, to help him focus on what is real and stop doubting his mind. You had never realized before how much he doubted your presence in his life, or your desire to stay in it, until that moment.

Still, you knew healing was a slow process, and the best way to reassure him you were there to stay was to do so. And you did. Months turned to years, slowly but surely, and pictures started taking on a new meaning for the both of you.

The habit of taking pictures slowly evolves within the group of friends you have learned to call family, and before you know it, everyone has something to do with Bucky’s camera.

There are hundreds of pictures saved by Steve, some of New York’s skyline, others of different places around the city, mainly in Brooklyn. Most of Steve’s pictures, though, are of completely random objects, sometimes in different angles or lights, something that never ceases to baffle Bucky.

Sam uses it to fill the memory with pictures of pigeons and Redwing in his attempts to annoy Bucky, but you have seen some pictures of him and your soldier snuck in, hidden between the brotherly pranks.

Tony starts using it to try and convince Bucky into letting him design his new arm, placing random pictures of his designs, in various colors, even some real-looking prototypes, in between Bucky’s own pictures.

Even Nat takes into using the camera, taking it with her on her trips to the West of the country, coming back with blurred shots of grass, scattered toys and running children.

And you? You take upon yourself to capture every moment you see the man you love shine through the lost memories, the decades-old pain, the ragged breaths and clouded thoughts. You capture brilliant smiles, twinkling eyes with creases in the corners, you capture loving and soft looks, you capture his face lax with peace as he sleeps.

You capture, like him, the memories you want to treasure, you keep them close to your heart until years go by, and the pictures cease to be necessary, both to you and Bucky. The physical proof of what once was a memory, of what once was a moment that was deserving to be kept still, that was worthy of living in forever, stops being compulsory when the bad days start coming further apart from each other, when there come many little proofs of his happiness that he takes on to cling to. Like the vintage diamond ring on your finger, the golden band on both your fingers, the matching dogtags hanging from both your necks.

Still, the gift you impulsively got Bucky on a bad night remains a part of your life together, they remain another small routine; the hundreds of pictures hanging around the home you share are memories to be lovingly caressed, the old camera is saved a special place and becomes a witness to every big moment in your lives together.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, I would love to hear your thoughts! Also, come say hi on my Tumblr: bucky-is-a-hero-fightme.tumblr.com ! Love, Luce.


End file.
